Grand Central is decked out in all its glory. Holly wreaths and glittering blue snowflakes on every lamppost kind of glory. The hustle and bustle is part of that glory.

The illuminated gold clock above the information booth is reminding me how very soon my train leaves.

I'm third in line at the ticket booth. Only in New York is it this busy after 11 PM. Certainly not where I'm going.

"Where to, Miss?" The elderly lady behind the glass partition asks, her red lipstick staining her teeth.

"Here," I say, pointing to the second to last stop of a NY ➡️ PA route.

"Oh, it's lovely this time of year. You know I once visited my sister here. But that's back when Bush was in-"

I'm nodding politely but rest assured definitely tuning her out.

"Thanks," I mumble quickly before pulling my ticket off the marble countertop.

I climb into my assigned space, compliments of the overly cheerful ugly-sweater clad attendant. Luckily, it's a window seat, so I've got that going for me.

I'll Be Home for Christmas playing on the train's speakers is a bit much, though.

After stowing my duffle on the luggage rack (and secretly praying it falls on my head and knocks me out), I take my seat. It is tattered and lumpy beneath me and still showing signs of its previous occupant. Thanks for the used gum.

I rearrange myself to lean against the finger-printed window. I scrunch my scarf into a makeshift pillow and wedge it under my head against the cool glass.

The last holiday-goer piles in, smiling absent-mindedly (clearly not a native New Yorker). With a sudden lurch the train springs into motion and here we go.

Here I go.

Home.

I pull out my phone and open my thread with Jayden and Jules to read the 17 missed messages and tags on the gram.

Pouring one out 4 U

Deja's text banner pops up across my phone. I roll my eyes and before I know it, my thumbs are vigorously taking my impending dread out on Deja.

Can't believe I let you talk me into this *angry devil*

Before thoroughly depressing my spirits further, I lock my phone to its home screen and tuck it into the side pocket of my bag.

My eyes fall on the frayed green ends of my scarf as the words If Only in my Dreams fall on my ears. I wish this was a dream.

...

Twenty minutes into this great misguided migration my eyes finally sweep the train walls, glossing over the daytime schedules and useless announcements.

Update: Evidently people find it socially acceptable to carol on the train. Not to be a scrooge or grinch, but actually yes. I have half a mind to tell them that their silence would, in fact, bring joy to my world. #bahumbug

A glittering red and green holiday poster catches my attention, and I (begrudgingly) can't help but look.

Still Time to Write to Santa

North Pole Mail Call

Yada Yada Whatever.

As if Santa cares.

I pull out my phone and, against all better judgment, open up a blank Notes sheet and bite my lip.

I ponder like every faithful, unassuming, 10-year-old writing to Santa. If he were here beside me, instead of my casually unhygienic middle-aged man seat sharer, what would I say?

That I used to write him every year? Shouldn't he know that? Or how about that time he didn't get me the pet dog I asked for?

Ugh!

     Dear Santa,

     Thanks for the break-up, it was great.
     Truly, the cherry on top of my year.

     Now I'm trapped next to carolers singing
     Joy to the World on repeat. Not looking
     forward to this train ride, but it's nothing
     a little spiked cider can't handle.

     You know where to find me.

     -Noelle

Seems accurate for the most part, barring how strong I make my next spiked cider.

Speaking of strong, I'd like to say I can resist the urge to pull open social media and stalk on Preston. But I'd like a lot of things this holiday season.

Namely, Preston Wells. Or I guess what he took away when he dumped me.

The apartment. The ring. The long-term plan that was going somewhere. The Christmas spirit.

My heart recoils when I close the apps and see the background on my own phone.

Us. Under the Rockefeller tree. Three days ago.

Did Preston know then that he was planning on ruining my Christmas aka life?

Did he already have his own bags packed to skirt out of the city and jet off on our Hawaiian getaway?

The questions are endless.

Right about now Preston is on a plane, sitting in a luxurious first-class pod, drinking sparkling champagne, and being waited on hand and foot.

Meanwhile, I'm here next to someone who doesn't believe in showers, empty-handed of all things bubbly, and desperately writing a letter to Santa.

Casual.

How am I not lying lazy on a beach right now? Escaping with Jayden and Jules on their Miami weekend was 100% the move the make. I just cannot believe I listened to Deja!

Just go home and relax. It will be lowkey she said. Fall in love with Christmas again. It will be magical she said.

If I wanted magical, I'd reread Harry Potter again.

And we're almost at two hours and my ass is officially dead in its seat, my nose nice and rosy from the cold air seeping through the window. I look down at the arrival time on my ticket and the little clock on my phone. Thirty minutes to go.

Glad my hometown is in the middle of approximately nowhere. Now I remember why I never visit home -why I make the parents come to me.

Stop after stop, people disembark. Until there's only three of us left in car 2. Mercifully, the carolers ditched us two stops ago.

No one comes this far toward the end of the line.

If nothing else, maybe I'll admit it's a scenic ride home. Hard maybe.

You already know how I love New York during the Holiday Season. All the lights. All the parties. The glitz and glam and amalgamation of so many celebrations.

Still, the untouched snowscape of the rural countryside is quite unmatched this time of year. As I watch the hills roll by now, I notice the moon abreast on the new-fallen snow really is giving the luster of midday to objects below.

We slow to a crawling pace. Just like in some antiquated fairytale, the train rounds a bend and my quaint village comes into view, its Christmas lights glittering like frosty fireflies.

Vom.